Block-Stabbed

Words are spreading like a disease,
a mountain of emotions amounts to large doses
of admiration, of appreciation.
On the contrary, little mud pits that block the way
like manure left by stray dogs,
like spit discharged by street mongers,
laying and lying in your body's face,
are obvious signs of unwarranted espionage.
Yet, the senses are blinded, nonexistent
to the point of deviating, to evict the crime.
Ending up being a cold-blooded victim
of senseless hallucination, of deception.

Rush Hour

1:40 AM

The evening runs like a wind, a ski in a slope,
the head feels a sensation, hair dancing in the sea of air,
images blaze like pictures in marathon, trailing the omniscient darkness,
as the solitude is being pursued, the mind is being perused,
by the traces of destiny, sounding like heart beats,
ants marching, pulsating in every vein,
trailing the sea of cement, following every note.
The train dance still moves on, would carry on.